


Ambivalence

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barricade Day, Canonical Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Enjolras POV, Gen, courfeyrac could be a star and i'm not crying you are, main character has no dialogue, prosey and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 07:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19080664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Revolution is coming, real and fast, and Enjolras reflects on what's at stake in the days leading up to it.Warnings:canonical character death, sadness





	Ambivalence

When Enjolras walks into the kitchen at an hour he’s not sure exists on any clock, Courfeyrac is sitting atop the kitchen table in nothing but his knickers and pride eating Lucky Charms from the box, somewhere between drunk and hungover.

It’s late enough that Enjolras doesn’t even question it, just grabs his own cereal and takes a seat.

“Enjolras?”

He looks up.

“Do you really think we can do it? Like. I want to believe we can—I think everyone does. But do you really think we’ll be able to?”

Enjolras is quiet for a long time. 

“It’s worth the risk,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “These are the names we know, right? The photos on the walls, the movements we read about in the textbooks. Even if we miss, we land among the stars.”

Enjolras is pretty sure a large chunk of quote is missing somewhere, but Courfeyrac continues.

“I’d die for you.” Courfeyrac sits solemnly, and Enjolras gets the distinct feeling that he is bearing witness to a rare moment of raw and open vulnerability from the man. “I’d die for everyone. If my life, my death, could ease the suffering of anyone, even a little, I’d do it. I would die for this movement.”

Courfeyrac’s hair stands up on his head in an absurd angle. His surgery scars stand out in bright contrast with his olive skin. He has stretchmarks, beautiful streaks of lightning, around his waistline and thighs, and Enjolras can see that the man has shaved his legs recently. 

He knows Courfeyrac means every word of what he says, and Enjolras doesn’t know how to respond.

 

—

 

“Can you imagine me,” Marius muses, “with a family?”

Enjolras can, he really can. Marius, for all of his flaws, is overflowing with love and compassion. He would be a fantastic parent. His children would adore him, just as much as he would dote on and care for and love them unconditionally.

Lamarque has been dead mere hours, still warm on her gurney, but the plans have already been set into motion. There’s nothing to do now but wait.

“I’ve always wanted to be a dancer. One of the ones at Disney,” Joly volunteers. Enjolras knows he’s not the only one looking sympathetically at the cane in their lap. “I know I...can’t. Not right now. But advances in medicine are happening quickly. There’s so many things people will be capable of, so soon.”

“They have dance in their soul,” Bossuet testifies. Bossuet would also be an excellent father. Or uncle. Husband. He doesn’t even have that yet, and he sorely deserves it. Legislation is passing fast, but not fast enough.

Feuilly claps his hands, feet moving from the rungs of his stool to the floor as he rests his elbows on his knees. “I’ve nearly passed my final test,” he reveals. “If I do well on my last observation, I’ll have my certificate. I know it’s not much of a ceremony or anything, and maybe it’s crass to invite everyone on the dawn of Madame Lamarque’s…” Death. Her death. “But uh. My technical graduation is June 10th. And if you all could make it...well, that’d mean a lot to me.”

Quiet congratulations are offered, high-fives and grins abound. Enjolras smiles proudly at the former foster child, making his way in the world, an entire future ahead of him.

A voice that surprises Enjolras pierces the din. “The butterfly gardens,” Combeferre says. It almost sounds like he chokes on it, but Enjolras knows better, because this is Combeferre, and Combeferre has never choked on anything he’s wanted to say. The room goes silent for his remarks. “The _Jardin des Papillons_...they said...if I ever want a job, I need only apply.” He takes a breath. “I love my work, but I think. I think I would like that. If I ever have the chance.”

Everyone nods in quiet acknowledgement. Combeferre is capable of great things, incredible things. Any field he chooses would be blessed to have him. 

“I’ve nearly completed my first transcript,” a flushing Jehan volunteers. They don’t look at anyone as they speak, staring at their sneakers. “There’s a publisher that is interested. I just need to finish a couple more poems, and they say I can have my own anthology.”

“Jehan,” says Grantaire, somewhere between admonishment and amazement, “that’s incredible.”

Their hue darkens a shade. Enjolras’s lips remain resolutely pursed.

"I didn't get the part." All eyes turn to Courfeyrac. "Not the part I auditioned for. But I'm playing a different role. I have a name, and I'm in every episode." He looks somewhere above Jehan's head. "I was gonna wait to see if the pilot went through to tell you guys, but ah." He shrugs bashfully. "I guess I just really wanted to share." 

Several people around the room nod, and Marius reaches over to rub Courfeyrac's arm. 

“I’ve started an initiative,” Bahorel volunteers, voice gruff. “Breaking stereotypes ‘n all. I’ve been teaching ballet ‘n meditation to the boys Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’ve been backing Ép up with the girls Monday/Wednesday/Friday. I wasn’t gon’ say nothing because we only just started last week, but uh. Numbers are good. ‘N we have some NB kids who just do whatever the hell they want, and everyone’s been…” Bahorel’s voice cracks. “They been so good. They’re such good kids. ‘N I wanna see them grow up.”

Here it is, what everyone’s been dancing around. At last, Enjolras brings his drink to his lips. It brings him no pleasure except to lessen the lump in his throat.

_We have such good people here._

The least expected voice, the voice Enjolras never truly expected to hear volunteer anything of particular insight, speaks up. 

“My uh. My _avó_. She always wanted me to build a better life than her and my _vovô_. She said she wanted me to be a teacher, and uh.” He scoffs. “Fuck, I haven’t done shit to start that. But she’s been too good to me not to, y’know? I’ve been trying to apply to these fucking tutoring programs. You know, anything to get a leg up. More experience, or whatever.” He pauses, and the room waits for him. “She’s worked so hard to give me everything. I need to give back.”

Jehan is the one who answers. “I’m sure she’d be proud that you—” 

“I’m _not_ , okay?” the man responds. “How’s that for repayment? Everything she cares about, and the best I can do is, what? Go through the motions?” Grantaire shakes his head. “She might be proud, but I haven’t have earned it. She deserves so much more. Both of them do.”

No one talks after that. Maybe Enjolras should, but this is what he was born for, what he’s always known that he would live for, and he is at perfect comfort dying for it. He’s always known he would, after all: it’s all he’s known his entire life.

Maybe not, though. Maybe there is more than being a martyr, or a spokesperson. Maybe he could be his own person.

Maybe he could live for himself.

But now doesn’t seem the time to consider this possibility: he’s committed too many lives to the cause to consider any other possible route. These are people who were born with the entire world within their reach, who still have so much to do. 

And this is all that Enjolras has ever been good for.

 

—-

 

Jehan is dead.

Jehan is dead, and Éponine is dead, 

And who will finish Jehan’s anthology? Who will teach Éponine’s M/W/F boxing lessons? Her brother is here, and he won’t listen to anyone when they try to send him away—and honestly, why should he? The only person who’s ever felt accountable for him is Gone, his sun’s already well as set, and— 

“Drink with me to days gone by,” Grantaire sings. 

—and Enjolras doesn’t need this right now, he doesn’t.

“Can it be you fear to die?”

Of course not. Enjolras has never faced any other fate: this is his destiny. This is what he was born to do.

But the others...he wishes he could send them away. Fail or succeed, win or lose, they deserve more. Deserve more than to huddle behind a barricade of expendable furniture, and Enjolras can’t help but wonder if it’s some sort of symbolic equivalent to their lives in the eyes of the people.

Marius could be a father.

Joly could dance.

Bossuet could get married. 

Feuilly could be a professional.

Combeferre could raise butterflies.

Courfeyrac could be a star.

Bahorel could change the world.

And Grantaire...Grantaire contains _multitudes_. Within Grantaire lies all the potential for Man, the hope for the future.

 

And Enjolras has led all of them to their deaths.

 

—-

 

Enjolras will die alone, and it’s what he deserves.

His friends have all died already, the most and the least of them, while Enjolras stood by wordlessly. Enjolras is a coward, and it’s a coward’s end that he faces. A coward’s end that he deserves.

History needs to remember them, though. Not Enjolras—he couldn’t possibly care less about going down in the annuls of history. But he needs every textbook to remember the dimples of Courfeyrac’s smile and the way that Combeferre always needed the most ridiculous variation of screwdriver to fix his glasses _just_ right. He needs history to remember how Jehan had this very particular curl to that never stuck behind their ear right, that always ended up in their face, but that they invariably treated as a good luck charm that just wasn’t wound tight enough when they needed it most. How Bahorel and Éponine were ready to jumpstart the freshest gender revolution the world had ever seen, how Feuilly was prepared to be the poster-child for foster child everywhere. The next generation needs to know that Bossuet was completely incompetent in anything he ever attempted without his whole heart. The number of lives saved and lost that Joly notched on their cane before coming to the barricade.

They need to know how close Grantaire was to his _avós_ , how much he treasured them and wanted to make them proud and to set an example for immigrant children everywhere. How close he was. How close he will be.

Enjolras is the last of them. He’s watched almost every one of his friends die before his very eyes, and if the police force is so cruel as to let him survive, at least he’ll the consolation that none of them have been forgotten.

The sights of every rifle have already been set on him by the time Grantaire enters, and Enjolras is so near to an existential breakdown that for once, he allows his selfish desire to run over him.

“I’m one of them!” Grantaire announces.

Any other day, Enjolras would denounce him—out of pity or self-defense, Enjolras cannot attest. But he’s damned to hell already, with the lives of so many hopeful innocents on his conscience. Let this be his one act of pure selfishness in this world.

“Will you...let me?” Grantaire asks. 

It feels absurd, Grantaire asking to be _allowed_ to die at his side. Of course, a proper citizen might die beside him.

Of course, someone who truly believes in their cause may sacrifice themself.

Of course, the embodiment of Enjolras’s hopes for humanity may lay at peace with him.

He hasn’t said a word yet, only reaching out to clasp Grantaire’s hand in silent acceptance before the report is sounded. 

And this is how Enjolras dies:

With a smile on his face,

A hand is his,

And the most ambivalent of hope for the future on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Alt title: Hours that Don't Exist on a Clock
> 
> I appreciate comments. <3 
> 
> (my tumblr is [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com))


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